


je suis le roi (i am the king)

by orphan_account



Series: appelle-moi par ton nom (call me by your name) [10]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Dom Timothée Chalamet, Frottage, King Henry V of England, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Richard Courtenay Bishop of Norwich, Sexual Roleplay, Sort Of, kind of, the king - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Timmy wants to play a game.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: appelle-moi par ton nom (call me by your name) [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087184
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	je suis le roi (i am the king)

In the early morning light, Armie stood by the window, the drape half open, leaning against the wall. He looked out over the city, his face and body lit with brightness above, the rest of his body cast into shadow. 

He was bare chested, naked except for a black pair of briefs and thick, mid-calf crew socks.

“Morning,” Timothée mumbled from within a nest of pillows and sheets. He had gotten up sometime during the night to use the bathroom, and thrown his boxers into a pile on the closet floor. 

He lay naked within the sheets, a strange and vulnerable feeling. He could feel every place where the sheets touched him.

Armie looked over his shoulder and smiled softly. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

Timothée sat up and hugged a pillow to his chest, watching Armie. He hadn’t slept much at all, and when he had, he had dreamed of waking up alone to find that Armie had left, that he had booked a flight and gone back to his family in the Cayman Islands. Back to ‘his real life.’

Armie leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. He yawned distractedly and shifted his weight. “I take you back to Mass General this afternoon to get your stitches taken out. Finally. In the meantime we can watch a show or movie, or I can order a pizza. Whatever you want.”

Timothée didn’t want to watch TV or eat. He wanted him.

“I thought of a game we can play," he said, sitting up as he clutched the pillow to his chest, while keeping the blanket pulled up to his neck.

Armie grinned at him from across the room. “A game?”

Timothée blushed and covered his mouth and nose with the edge of the sheet. “It’s kind of a sort of, like...roleplay.” He pulled the sheet down, just enough to show his nose. “It’s kind of like...an acting exercise.”

“Is it?” Armie asked.

“Uh-huh. It’s just something to do. You know, to pass the time.”

The corners of Armie’s mouth curved up in a leer. “Really.”

Timothée rolled over and chewed one of his fingernails, the blanket draped over his thin frame. “Yeah, it’s a sort of...improv. I’ll play one role, and you play another.”

“And what roles are they?”

Timothée glanced at Armie sideways, holding the sheet up to his chin. “I thought maybe I could tap into Hal again. Play at being the king again.”

Armie smiled and tilted his head to the side. “The king? Not the prince?”

“The king.” Timothée blushed. He hugged the pillow to him and stood up, drawing himself to his full height. “King Henry V of England. The Warrior King.”

“Okay,” Armie said drily. “I figured that was one of your favorite roles. I guess you felt empowered, getting to shout and stomp around on set. Ordering people about, when before you had always played bookish, brainy brats. It must have been quite the power trip. I guess I get to play a pageboy or servant or something?”

“Nope. I don’t need a servant.” Timothée sat back down on the bed and covered himself.

Armie glanced downward, his gaze resting on the outline of Timothée’s bandaged stomach beneath the sheets. “Do you want me to play as your enemy, then? The Dauphin?”

“No.” Timothée shook his head.

“Who then?” Armie asked. He covered his mouth and yawned.

Timothée took a deep breath. “I thought maybe you could play the part of the king’s friend.” He scratched the back of his head uncertainly. “Um, his very best friend. His lover.”

“Who was that?”

Timothée caught the covers in his hands and sat up fully, letting them fall to expose his chest and shoulders. “His name was Richard Courtenay. He was a bishop and chancellor, and he was one of Henry V’s closest confidants. They were friends before he came to the throne, and he was a counselor and mentor to him early in his reign. He wasn’t in the movie, obviously, but if he had been -” Timothée paused and pressed the sheet to his mouth and mumbled. “I would’ve wanted you to play him.”

A long silence followed. Timothée did not look at Armie. He didn’t think he could stand it. He blinked and breathed deeply as his body gradually felt hot all over. “Armie -” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Um, what are you thinking?”

When Armie didn’t answer immediately, Timothée leaned forward over his knees and hid his face.

“Do you really want to know what I’m thinking?” Armie asked softly.

Timothée looked up. Armie watched him from the dimness, partly in shadow from the rising light through the window. He could not see his face clearly, only that one muscular arm was crossed over the over, his fists clenched.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “I’m kind of afraid to.”

Armie laughed. “I’m afraid that you’re doing a great injustice to your role. Are you really the Warrior King? With your squeaky voice, making decrees from your bed as a throne? As your friend, and your counselor, I’m pretty underwhelmed.”

Timothée sighed. He slowly pushed aside the pillows. He stretched and folded his spindly legs as gracefully as he could and picked up the top sheet to cover himself as he stood up. He looked up at Armie, but still could not make out his expression against the glare.

He walked across the floor and sat down in the bean bag chair, tucking one ankle behind the other. “I can’t see you,” he said. “Come away from the window.”

At first, Timothée didn’t think he would. Then he stepped forward, away from the wall and into the growing sunlight. He stood with his legs apart and his arms still crossed, smiling scornfully.

Armie would have made a very good Richard Courtenay. He could be gentle and sweet, but he also wasn’t afraid of calling Timothée out on his occasional pettiness, and punishing him, in a way. With an effort, Timothée kept his face blank. He met Armie’s faint smile with a vacant stare.

“You seem to have something on your mind, Sir Richard. May I have a penny for your thoughts?”

Armie laughed and fumbled with the waistband of his briefs. He started to pull them down, but stopped and shook his head.

“Maybe you’re too afraid to play this game with me.” Timothée frowned at him sullenly and batted his eyelashes. He stood up, walked over to Armie and lay his hand on the center of his chest. Armie closed his eyes when Timothée skimmed his nails over his nipple. “Sir Richard? Disrobe.”

Armie seemed taller than ever to Timothée, standing so close. He seemed tall, and savage, and unpredictable. Timothée pinched Armie’s nipple between his nails.

Armie sucked in air harshly between his teeth. He reached for his briefs again and slid them down his legs, standing stiffly, staring at the wall behind Timothée. As he lifted his leg to step out of them, Timothée knelt down and kissed Armie’s thigh for a moment before standing up again.

Armie stood immobile and closed his eyes again. Timothée let his gaze pass over him, from his legs to his hips, up his torso to his shoulders and throat. He reached out to touch him and tangled his fingers in his pubic hair.

In response, Armie groaned and trembled in his hold. Standing so close together, their erections were separated only by the thin veil of the sheet. Timothée moaned, taking in the sight. 

Armie really was the most beautiful person he’d ever known. And he was his. His lover, his subject. His subordinate. He was under Timothée’s command, entirely at his will.

Timothée stood on his tiptoes and kissed Armie, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him down. Armie framed Timothée’s face between his hands. He struggled not to lean down and pick him up.

Abruptly, Timothée stood back. He reared his hand back and slapped Armie across the face. He was so surprised by what he’d done that he gasped. He reached out and traced his thumb over Armie’s cheek, startled.

It had not happened often, but Timothée could count on one hand the number of times he had been punished for some small, childish trespass. His mother had not had the heart to do it, but he recalled a few stinging, shaming slaps from Bubbe in public.

Timothée held Armie’s wrists. Armie clenched his hands into fists as the cords of his muscles strained all along his arms. He took a deep, shaky breath. A bead of sweat slowly trickled below his ear. He stared straight ahead, at some fixed point on the wall behind Timothée’s head.

Timothée let go of his wrists and traced his fingers down Armie’s forearms, barely touching him. Armie flinched. Timothée drew his hand down and touched Armie gently, cradling him in his palm. “Shit!” Armie cursed and jerked in his hold.

“Stop. Don’t move.” Timothée snarled and bit him, the imprint of his teeth a brand on the pale skin of Armie’s chest. “Whoa...wait, what?” Timothée gulped and blinked, glancing down at the floor and back up.

Armie groaned deeply. He backed up and reached behind him to touch the wall as he stood with his legs spread apart. “C’mon,” he said gruffly. “Just get on with it, Timmy!”

He was practically begging him. Timothée walked toward Armie and touched his face, stroking his cheeks as he kissed him. Armie was so beautiful and vulnerable and helpless, stuck quite literally between a rock and a hard place. Well, a wall.

Armie trembled all over, standing with his legs wide open and his head tilted back against the wall. This wasn’t a game anymore. Timothée was no longer sure it had been from the beginning.

“Armie,” he murmured, his voice filled with wonder at himself, at the sight before him. “Jesus Christ, I love you.”

Armie groaned and lowered his face. He stared at Timothée with his teeth bared. “If I could, I’d pick you up, toss you back on the bed, and fuck you until you didn’t have the energy to whimper or beg.”

Timothée took a deep breath, trying to regain some of his bravado. He lifted his face and met Armie’s stare. He reached out and curled his fingers around him. Armie whimpered and thrust into Timothée’s palm.

Timothée leaned on Armie and kissed his chest. Armie hissed and wondered how it was that Timmy, the self-professed ‘nice Jewish boy’ from Hell’s Kitchen, could know how to do this. He bit and tugged on his nipples, squeezing his cock between his fingers.

Armie moaned and leaned his head back against the wall. His body was wracked with shudders. When he was right on the verge of orgasm, Timothée let him go. He heard the scrape and thump of plastic at his feet. He opened his eyes and found Timothée standing in front of him, on his level.

Without a word, he kissed him, hard, his mouth spread open. His hands searched and held Armie, and he thrust hard against him. The feel of the direct skin-to-skin contact almost made Armie spill into Timothée’s hand.

Timothée broke from the kiss and pulled back, his free hand resting on Armie’s shoulder for support. Armie couldn’t move, mesmerized. Timothée stared into his eyes and parted his lips as he thrust against him, softly at first, and then harder, sinking his nails into Armie’s shoulder. He moved against him until he jerked and came with a low wail.

Timothée’s climax prompted Armie’s. Armie groaned and rested his forehead on Timothée’s shoulder. It seemed surreal that the little footstool Timothée stood on didn’t topple. But then, he figured that had all been part of the plan. Part of the game.

Armie whimpered. He turned his head and kissed Timothée’s neck. He slowly slid down and sank to his knees before Timothée. He held him on either side and pressed his lips to Timothée’s stomach.

“You are my king,” he said roughly. “And I am your loyal subject.”

Timothée giggled softly, like a pleased child. He thread his fingers through the back of Armie’s head and grabbed a tuft of his hair. He kicked the footstool to the side and sank down to the floor. Armie felt the lightest touch of Timothée’s breath, his hand in his hair, the sweet pressure of his lips as he kissed his forehead.


End file.
